man_without_fear | You're the worst, you know that, right?

You're the worst, you know that, right?

Matt had things to do tonight. Leads to track down, situations he could be handling, people he should be helping.

Instead, he's wasted a bunch of energy in Milliways and now he's wasting time by returning to his place after, on this side of the door, just a short spell away.

Arriving on the landing, Matt clomps down the stairs, a perforated box tucked under his arm. He has the mask on, but along the exposed parts of his face there are a few lightly bleeding scratches, and he has more beneath the dark fabric of his shirt on his shoulder and back.

Clearly annoyed, he heads straight for the kitchen; depositing the box on a chair at the table and walking to the fridge to pull out a bottle of water.

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

To combat the relative silence, Claire's been browsing Matt's record collection; the Alabama Shakes are currently on rotation, medium-low.

♫ some things could be seen from above
thread of design
don't trip me up ♫

This very moment finds Claire fresh from a soak in the tub, hoping to ease some of the lingering soreness from her bruised body before bed.

Despite the now-familiar thunk of Matt's boots on the stairs, her heart rate spikes.

(It's not the Russians.)

Her grip tightens on her damp towel.

(It's not.)

Annoyed with her own jumpiness, she dons a pair of Matt's boxers, and bites down on a wince as she eases into a T-shirt.

One steadying breath later, she pads out of the bedroom.

Even over the music he can hear the jump of her heartbeat; an anxious drum that almost moves him to her before it evens out.

He stands at the sink and takes a few long drinks from the bottle of water, then spends a moment removing his gloves.

When Claire steps out of the bedroom Matt lifts his head.

"It's just me."

"Mmm," she hums, her voice rough and warm with relief. "Still holding out for that billionaire playboy."

"Sorry to keep disappointing."

He can smell the new shampoo and conditioner that Bar provided for Claire, and his own Epsom salt on her skin. She sounds better; the bruises are healing and the ribs are knitting.

"Enjoy your bath?" he asks, reaching up to carefully peel off the mask.

"Definitely helped," she says, joining him in the kitchen.

"How about you?" She eyeballs the scratches on his cheek and jaw, eyes narrowing at their corners. "Calling it a — "

Her nose twitches; she sniffles.

"An early night?"

That sniffle makes him pause, and he turns his head away to school a reaction.

Setting the mask down on the counter, Matt turns on the sink; letting the water run a moment before he begins washing his hands.

"Just a break," he says with a short shake of his head. "I uh, I need your help with something."

"Like, say, diagnosing cat-scratch fever?"

She flips on the kitchen light to get a better look at his face.

Her eyes begin to itch, and she blinks away the irritation.

"Ugh."

Matt's mouth drops downward into a frown, un-amused.

"More like identifying the culprit. Your friend got out of the apartment tonight."

"Sneaky little bastard's no friend of mine," Claire says, bemused despite herself. "You, on the other hand — "

She sniffles again, pulling a face in the general direction of Matt's fur-snowed shirt.

"Wait a minute." She blinks, hard, to clear her watery vision. "Define 'identify.'"

Apology in his expression aimed at Claire, Matt gestures at the box on the chair at the table.

"It got into Milliways, and apparently Milliways has a lot of resident cats." A fact Matt discovered the hard way tonight.

"Someone put it to sleep for me, and I'd just like to confirm I have the right damn cat."

Glancing at the box, Claire breathes something between a snort and a long-suffering sigh.

"Jesus."

Then, affectionately: "You're the worst, you know that, right?"

With a small shake of her head, she walks over to inspect the snoozing feline in question.

"No worse than your cat. You know, I almost had to fight two different people to get it back."

On cue, a very pitiful, and groggy, yowl comes from the box. Matt keeps his distance, leaving it to Claire now.

"Didn't help that you never told me its actual name."

"Oh, right." She mostly hides a smirk. "Most of mine are four letters."

Claire opens the perforated box, preparing herself for, well, whatever.

"But, hey, so's Taco."

Who is, thankfully, safe and sound in his cardboard haven.

Despite her watering eyes, Claire gives the loopy furball a compassionate scritch.

"Go back to sleep, shithead."

"You're kidding," Matt replies flatly when he hears the cat's name.

Despite his ire with the cat and the night of aggravation it has caused him, Matt is glad that he wrangled the right feline in the end.

Reunion complete, Matt goes back to the sink and runs the tap, pulling a paper towel sheet to wet under the spray so that he can dab at the scratches on his jaw.

Claire closes the box, and joins Matt at the sink to wash her hands.

"C'mere, tiger," she says, her voice warm and close at Matt's shoulder. "Let's see the damage."

Matt shakes his head in warning against that particular nickname at her even as he complies; turning and giving over his chin.

(She was eating raspberries again tonight, and somewhere in the back of his mind he files away a reminder to himself to pick up more for her tomorrow.)

Arching his shoulder against the rough prickle of more scratches irritated by the fabric of his shirt he notes, "I've waded through fights with gangsters with fewer hassles."

"Doesn't surprise me," Claire murmurs, angling Matt's head to better see the angry stripes along the side of his throat.

"Deep scratches can get pretty serious. Those devious little paws prance around in litter boxes and fuck knows what else, so — "

She pauses, sniffling.

"Lots of opportunity for infection."

Matt tugs away from her hearing that, leveling a 'come again?' expression on her.

"If it's your cat that kills me, Claire-- "

He has no follow-up to that threat, just the promise to be very upset if Taco Cat does the job a city of criminals hasn't been able to yet.

To her credit, Claire doesn't laugh.

"Okay, one, he's not my cat, but let's consider Louisa grateful for your swashbuckling heroics."

(As long as Claire has her say, Louisa will never know her favorite furry palindrome took a side trip to the end of the universe.)

"And, two?" She makes for the first-aid kit already waiting on the kitchen table. "No dying tonight."

"He is tonight," Matt replies, pulling out a chair for himself. "I've still got things to do out there, so you two can keep each other company."

Before he sits he takes a moment to gingerly peel off his shirt, wanting to make sure that all of the scratches get taken care of.

"I'll do my best as always on the not dying thing."

"The gift that keeps on giving," she deadpans, pulling on a pair of nitrile gloves.

If there's a silver lining to be had, well ... Claire supposes Matt's shirtlessness will have to suffice.

And, speaking of Matt's exposed torso, Taco definitely got more than a few good swipes in this evening.

Instead of simply soaking a cotton ball in peroxide, Claire returns to the sink, and fills a bowl with soapy water.

The small smirk tugging up Matt's lips might be just a little knowing.

Sitting backwards on the chair, he reaches up to gingerly dab at a scratch on his shoulder.

"Cat wanted to stay with anyone who would offer food or pet it."

"Ooh, so you've found your spirit animal," Claire says, dipping a clean cloth into the bowl. "Congrats on that."

She squeezes out the cloth, and washes the wounds on Matt's back and shoulder.

"I've been a lot of things, Claire," Matt informs her, voice tightening a beat when the cloth touches raw skin, "but never a moocher."

"You are a lot of things," she agrees, somewhat distractedly, as her attention moves to the side of Matt's neck. "Guess you can add scratching post to the list."

She rinses and wrings the cloth.

"Had a patient in the ER one night coming off some bad shit," she says, gently tipping Matt's chin upward. "The guy was agitated, really confused, hiding a feral cat under his coat. Threw it at me like a fastball."

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

Page 1 of 4

You're the worst, you know that, right?

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject